


young love, murder

by halo21



Series: vow [2]
Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drinking, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Gidget being sweet af, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, One Night Stands, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Underage, Power Outage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27234904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: "young love, murder, that is what this must be."☆a series of bettie/gidget oneshots set before vow, because I love my trashy babies.
Relationships: Gidget Gein/Original Characters
Series: vow [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988449
Kudos: 4





	1. thunderstorms and confessions

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: past child abuse, sexual assault, underage prostitution.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bettie and Brad discuss their fucked-up childhoods after the power goes out.

The rain hadn't stopped coming down since Bettie had woken up that morning. The streets were close to flooded by now, — she could see the water running down the road out the window, and knew it likely wouldn't be wise to attempt driving back to her own place, — not that she minded, really. Her life was so much easier without her bitchy foster sister making snide comments every time she walked past. 

So, conveniently, she was stuck at Brad's house for the night, which was pretty cool. He wasn't a bad roommate to have, — he ordered pad thai and turned on the TV, which they paid rapt attention to in companionable silence. They were halfway through the new episode of Twin Peaks when the whole room went black. 

"Well, shit." Bettie could only hear Brad's voice, — it was much too dark to see him. "Looks like the power's out. Guess I better look for a flashlight..." 

In spite of the circumstances, Bettie smirked, unable to resist her urge to be a smartass. "How're you supposed to look when it's this dark, Gidge?" 

Brad groaned. "Okay, — feel for a flashlight, then." She heard the floorboards creak as he stood, followed by the sound of his footsteps. He managed to make it to the kitchen in one piece, though the sound of a dull thud followed not too long after. "Fuck!" 

Bettie sat up straight, squinting through the dark. Jesus, she couldn't see anything. "You alright in there?" she called.

"Yeah," Brad replied, voice sounding slightly strained. "The lantern fell on my foot."

Bettie chuckled to herself as she caught sight of the faint whitish light of the lantern coming around the corner. She sighed dramatically as Brad settled on the couch next to her. "Why are you such a clumsy bastard?" 

"Shut up." He reached out, playfully shoving Bettie as she giggled. Then things went quiet, and Bettie couldn't help but notice that he never pulled his hand away. It was innocent, of course, — her arm, for God's sake, — but there was something about the fact that he was touching her. They could sit and drink and smoke and talk all evening, and he'd never touch her. 

Accidental or not, this was different. As she listened to the rain beat on the roof, she wondered why she even noticed. 

She was startled when he cleared his throat and pulled away. "So, uh... what are we supposed to do now?"

"Not much to do," Bettie replied with a shrug that he most likely wouldn't be able to see. "Except listen to the rain, and... I don't know... talk." 

"Talk about what? The power being out?"

"No! I thought you, of all people, would have more imagination than that..." 

She paused, taking a moment to listen to the drip-drip-dripping of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder before speaking again.

"Tell me something interesting about you," she told him. "Something I'd never know if I hadn't asked." 

Even in the dim, fuzzy light of the wind-up lantern, she could see the dubious look on his face. "You're asking me for my secrets, huh?" he asked. "I'm supposed to just trust you with that?" 

"Why not?" she shot back. "Hey, — I play fair. Show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

Brad chuckled. "Are we still talking about secrets, or..."

"Oh, hush," she chastised him. "Go on, — tell me something. Anything."

The house stayed quiet for a few more seconds before the words fell from his lips. "The man listed on my birth certificate probably isn't my dad." 

Suddenly, the joviality from before seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Bettie just sat there awkwardly, — she didn't know what she expected him to say, but she wasn't prepared for an immediate bombshell like that. 

All she could figure she could do was to do as she promised earlier, — play fair. 

"There isn't even a man listed on my birth certificate," she responded. "My dad's just some random who paid to fuck my mom, — of which there were plenty. She couldn't even look at me and wager a guess as to who he was. I asked, before she left."

"Well, at least she was honest. It's sort of different when your dad looks at you for the first time, and all he sees is a miniature version of one of his old cop buddies looking back at him."

A feeling of dread settled in the pit of Bettie's stomach. "You're kidding." 

Brad shook his head. "Wish I was. Conveniently, the guy switched departments while Mom was knocked up. My old man still tells me I look just like him, every time the two of us talk. He even dug out a picture to show me one time." 

Bettie eyed him carefully. "Do you?" she asked quietly. 

Sucking in a shaking breath, Brad nodded. "Yeah," he replied. "Yeah, I really do." He laughed then, but it was completely humorless. He sounded so... empty. 

"I wish I could meet the bastard," he continued. "Either talk with him, see if he'd accept me, or give him a real piece of my mind. He fucked up everything when he bagged my mom, dude. And he doesn't even know it." 

Bettie shifted uncomfortably. "Gidge..." 

Brad ignored her, staring blankly at the dark well ahead of him. It was like they weren't even there, in his living room, — hell, it was like she wasn't even there, sitting next to him. 

In the dark, he didn't even seem like the same person. In the year that she had known him, she'd never seen Brad look so upset. It got to her in a way that she hadn't expected. Looking at him then, he didn't look like the rowdy dumbass that was her friend. 

He was someone else, — someone who looked lost. She couldn't stand it. 

Still, she couldn't stop him from talking. The words just kept spewing out, like he'd had them bottled up for years, just waiting for someone to ask. 

"If he hadn't fucked her, my parents would probably still be together. They wouldn't have gotten divorced... My mom wouldn't have ended up marrying that son-of-a-bitch clown. She wouldn't have been slapped around every night then, wouldn't have watched her only son get beat black and blue..." He stopped. In the dead silence, Bettie thought she heard a sniffle.

"You know something, Bets?" His voice was much too thin when he spoke, — like he was seconds away from breaking. "Shit would've probably ended up a lot better if I hadn't been born." 

Bettie's heart dropped. 

"Gidge..." She stopped, deciding that nicknames weren't appropriate now. She needed to call him by his name, really get through to him. "Brad, don't say that." 

"Can't help but think it," he continued. "I mean, I know my mom wasn't the greatest... who knows, maybe she'd end up fucking around on him anyway... but things just kept getting worse after I came along. Maybe if I—"

"Stop." 

Without warning, she reached out and wrapped her arms around him. She felt him stiffen for a moment, and it occurred to her that he'd probably only ever seen her hug whichever of his bandmates she was sleeping with at the moment. Soon enough, however, he relaxed, returning her embrace. 

Bettie rested her chin on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her waist. She felt a lock of curly hair brush against her cheek as she closed her eyes. She brushed her fingers lightly over his back, feeling the curve of his spine through his worn T-shirt as she whispered in his ear.

"It's not your fault," she told him. "I know you think it is, but it's not." She pulled away, considering the thought nagging at her for a moment. She knew she shouldn't have said it, especially not while Brad was still upset, but it came slipping out anyway. 

"Sometimes I think what happened to me was my fault, too." 

Much to Bettie's dismay, Brad wriggled away from her. 

"What happened to you?" 

His voice carried more concern than Bettie deserved. The realization that he cared hit her then, sharp as a bullet hitting bone. She couldn't remember the last time somebody had sounded so worried about her.

That tone let her know that she had to tell him now.

So she opened her mouth, forcing the words out into the open, free to change how he thought of her. They still didn't feel right, coming off her tongue.

"I sold my virginity when I was twelve." 

Brad sucked in an audible breath. Bettie bit her tongue, feeling the sob threaten to break through. She couldn't cry, couldn't go back to feeling sorry for herself. 

It's probably not even a surprise, that voice in her head chimed in. 

He knows you're a slut. He's seen how you are with the rest of them. He'll probably just use this as an excuse to get in your pants. You'll let him, too.

She jumped as she felt his hand brush hers, — fingers rough from picking at the strings of his bass, his touch as light as a feather. "Bets..."

Just then, she heard a click. 

All at once, every light in the house seemed to flicker back on. The TV lit back up, in the middle of a commercial for some local car dealership. 

Even as she kept her gaze turned away from him, Brad's hand stayed on top of hers. 

She wondered if they could just stay like this. If she didn't look at him, he might drop it. 

He'd pull his hands away, stand up, and tell her to go back home. 

That never happened, though.

Instead, he said her name again. "Bettie." He tapped his finger against the back of her hand. "Hey. Look at me."

Reluctantly, she did. 

She winced, wishing with every bit of her that the power had just stayed out.

She could hardly handle just looking at him, — that look of serious focus on his face that she had only seen when he was preforming. Her gaze travelled from his set jaw up to the cold blue of his eyes, prepared to find either disgust or sympathy there.

Somehow, she didn't see either. 

He just kept looking at her, expression guarded, like he was still figuring out what to think. The look in his eyes didn't change, but his grip did tighten on her hands, fingers threading through hers. 

Finally, he spoke. "You don't have to tell me how it happened," he said. "But, Bets... it wasn't your fault." That choked tone crept into his voice again. "Jesus Christ, Bettie. You were a fucking child." 

With those words, the dam broke. Before she could stop them, tears were rolling down Bettie's cheeks. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Isn't anything to be sorry about." He pulled her into his arms, running a hand through her dirty blonde waves. 

She closed her eyes. None of the other guys ever touched her like that, — innocently, like it was something more than a prelude to sex. She was beginning to wonder if she had been needing this. 

Resting her cheek against his chest, she found the voice to speak again. 

"It was after Mom had been gone for a while," she said. "It had been days, and she still wasn't back. It was hot outside, and I was really hungry, — there was no food in the apartment, and I couldn't even find enough money lying around to buy myself a Happy Meal. I was so empty, puking nothing, and I was scared that if she didn't come back that day, I might die. I needed to do something, so I did the only thing I knew how to."

She fought to keep her eyes open, — if she closed them, she'd be back there, on those dirty streets, climbing into that car.

"I knew what street corner my mom stood on. It was a block away, so I walked. I was so hot and dizzy by the time I got there, I was scared I might be sick. I knew for sure that I had made it to the right place when I saw the other girls standing there. One or two were my mom's age, but most of them were just a little older than me. I was still the youngest, though."

She could hear her voice quivering, knowing what would happen when it all spilled out. "It didn't take any time at all for cars to start pulling up. A few girls went before me, — the guys would pick us out, one by one, like we were puppies or something. By the time the fourth one rolled up, it was my turn. He wasn't too old, but he was dirty, and he wasn't great looking. He looked at all of us, then he pointed at me and said, 'you.' "

She took one last deep breath before she got it all over with. "Right before I got in, the girl standing next to me grabbed my hand. She was really tall and thin, and from the side, I thought she had to be in her thirties. When she looked at me, though, I realized she was probably about sixteen, — just drugged out enough to look old. She looked me in the eye, and she whispered, 'you don't want to do that, baby.' But I didn't think I had any choice, so... I went with him." 

Brad didn't say a word, just tightened his arms around her. Bettie never imagined she'd feel anywhere close to safe telling this story, and yet, here, she almost did. 

"I kept going back to that street corner for a year," she continued. "The first few times, I cried. That disgusted those men. They'd kick me on my ass as soon as they finished. Some of them spit on me. A few tried to get by without condoms. Some put their hands on me, left bruises. I walked out a few times. After a while, though, it was just routine, like any other job. I almost felt like it was normal." 

She stopped for a moment, breathed in the scent of cigarettes and Thai food that clung to Brad's shirt, reminding herself where she was, — in the arms of someone who cared about her, her best friend. 

"Eventually, I got caught in a sting," she said finally. "Undercover cop caught me, hauled me into juvie. I told them about my mom, who I later found out had run off to Nevada without me. They still kept me for about a year, though, — something about letting me know that prostitution wasn't safe or easy, like I didn't already know that. After I served my time, they put me in my first group home." 

With that, she allowed herself to be quiet again, digging her fingers into the fabric of Brad's T-shirt as tightly as she could. 

"You can't tell anybody, Gidge," she murmured. "None of them know. Nobody knows, except you." 

"Don't even worry about it," Brad replied. He pulled back, smiling gently with misty eyes. 

He reached out, tucking a lock of hair behind Bettie's ear. 

"Your secrets are safe with me, Bets. All of 'em."


	2. the most wonderful girl (part one)

The first time Brad saw Bettie, she was completely hammered, perhaps a bit high, and grinding on some random goth girl to a Lords of Acid track. He didn't know exactly what it was, — it was at an hour when there were lots of drunk girls making fools of themselves, nearly everywhere he looked.

As soon as he laid eyes on this one, though, with her disheveled mess of pale hair, sweating off her thick black eyeliner, he couldn't look away. He paid no mind to the Siouxsie Sioux wannabe who had her hands on her hips, — it was just the blonde girl in the barely there halter top who had his attention.

He swallowed, watching her move, lyrics playing over and over like a mantra on top of the beat that shook the room.

_Sit on your face... I wanna sit on your face..._

_God,_ he found himself thinking. _I wish that she would._

He felt an elbow dig into his side. Somehow, this diverted his attention enough so that he could turn to Pogo, — who was grinning like a psycho, as per usual.

"You take the vampire," he told him. "I'll take the Bangles reject."

Just like that, Brad's hopes for the evening melted. "Aw, man," he complained. "Why can't we..."

"Because. I said it first."

"Jesus, Pogo. It's not like calling shotgun..."

"Yeah, it is."

"Well, I'm feeling ambitious." Brad grinned. "Wanna try for a foursome?"

Pogo snorted. "You would like that, you fag."

"Hey..." Brad leaned in closer, batting his eyelashes at him dramatically. "Takes one to know one, right?"

"Either put your lipstick on and follow me to the men's room or go put the moves on Elvira." Pogo pushed him back. "You gotta pick one, loverboy."

"Hmm..." He pretended to think. "Guess I'll go with Elvira."

"Good." With that, Pogo grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him towards the dance floor. "Then let's go."

The song ended, fading into a reasonably more downtempo Concrete Blonde song. With that, the depressed-looking revelers dispersed. Many of them seemed to be heading in the direction of the bar, including Elvira and the Bangles reject, as Pogo had coined them.

Knowing what would happen if he allowed his companion to speak first, Brad raised a hand, waving. "Hey, ladies," he said. "How we doing tonight?"

The trad-Goth's dark painted mouth set in a deep frown as she stopped walking. She crossed her arms over her chest, already looking completely inhospitable to his advances.

"Fine. And yourself?"

For someone who had been dirty dancing just a few moments earlier, she had a definite pretentious air about her. Clearly, she was more Brian's type. Too bad he wasn't there.

"I'm good," he replied, making sure to remain friendly. His eyes shifted between she and her friend. "My buddy and me were wondering if y'all might like some drinks?"

The trad-Goth wrinkled her nose, somehow managing to look even more disgusted than she did before. He was prepared to give up when another feminine voice rose over the music.

"That sounds nice."

He turned to see the fair-haired one smiling at him. Beneath the overhead lights, — turned red for the duration of "Bloodletting," — her black-ringed eyes were bright green and filled with life.

Brad felt his heart jump into his throat as he responded. "Alright, then. Our treat."

The girls followed them to the bar, one much more begrudgingly than the other. Knowing that Brad had done his part in harmlessly sweet-talking them, — that was always his job, — Pogo opted to swoop in right about then.

"So," he started, "how long have you two been bumping nasties?"

Without even looking, Brad knew that the trad-Goth looked thoroughly disgusted. He heard the blonde laugh.

"Oh, no," she giggled. "I don't swing that way."

"That's a shame," Pogo said. "Not even to put on a show?"

"Well, sometimes..." she replied. "But you boys would have to pay..." 

"Well, we're paying for drinks..."

"That doesn't count."

The four of them stopped at the bar, taking their seats on the stools. Somehow, Brad was fortunate enough to end up with the trad-Goth to his right and the blonde to his left.

He grabbed the chain attached to his wallet, reaching inside to retrieve a large bill. "Alright," he said. "What's your preference, girls?"

No sooner had the words left his lips did the blonde pipe up. "Shots," she said. "Any kind. Let's do a round together."

"Okay, then. We'll do that."

He waved the bartender down and ordered a round of Jäger bombs. Within a minute or two, the drinks arrived, and they dove in.

Brad was quick to throw back his first one. As usual, it tasted like shit, but it didn't take long after he swallowed it for him to feel that warm, prickly feeling in his face. He'd always known he was a lightweight, — his tolerance hadn't grown much since he downed his first drink in the seventh grade. It was probably destiny that he'd end up becoming familiar with substances other than alcohol.

Pogo grabbed a glass in each hand, sucking them down back to back. The trad-Goth eyed hers warily before taking a dainty sip that caused her whole face to shrivel.

Brad leaned in closer as not to humiliate her. "Just throw it back like it's medicine," he advised her. "Don't think about how it tastes."

Eyeing him dubiously, she brought the shot glass back to her lips.

From the other side of him, Brad heard a loud whoop. "Yeah, baby!"

When he turned to face her, the blonde was smiling, wiping her mouth off on the back of her hand. Lipstick freshly smeared, she placed her empty glass on the counter, pushing it forward. "Let's have another."

Impressed, Brad found his hand wandering towards his wallet again. However, if Pogo cared about any etiquette at all, it was the kind that came along with the art of shot-buying. He was already waving the bartender back over.

The next round arrived. Brad had two more, which caused him to feel a bit unsteady from his spot on the barstool. Always up for a challenge, Pogo tried to match his own drinking to Brad's. The trad-Goth didn't finish her second, pushing it away as she started to turn green under her white makeup.

The blonde tossed hers back like they were water, one after another. Brad didn't know if she had polished off her fifth or sixth before she jumped off the stool, standing on wobbly feet. The music had switched to another electronic number, causing crowds to flock back to the dance floor.

"Do you guys wanna dance?" she called, voice light.

Pogo shot Brad a sly look as his own feet hit the floor. "Sure thing, sugartits."

While Brad rolled his eyes at the clumsy terms that his buddy used, the blonde girl giggled, strutting over to take Pogo's hands and pull him along with her.

Hesitantly, Brad turned towards his own companion. Though he knew it was the intention all along, he wasn't quite ready to let Pogo run off with this girl yet. Not while the two of them were on such uneven ground. "You wanna go with them?"

The trad-Goth shrugged. "I suppose."

When they had parted the crowd enough to find the people they came with, Brad found that the blonde had returned to her previous antics. He watched as she grabbed Pogo's hands, guiding them from her hips back towards her ass. Face burning from more than the Jäger, Brad turned away, grabbing his own partner's hand.

He attempted to dance with Elvira for a bit, but the awkwardness between them never managed to fade. After a while, she let go of him, begging off. "I'm going to get another drink," she yelled over the music.

Knowing that he hadn't charmed her, but not exactly caring, Brad nodded. "Okay," he shouted back.

Not long afterwards, the song ended, quickly segueing into another.

He was startled to feel a body bump against his, though when he saw who it was, he didn't mind one bit.

"Hi," the blonde said breathily, clumsily grabbing at his hands. "Your friend went to the bathroom. Wanna take me for this dance?"

Brad's head was spinning. He was starting to regret those shots. "Sure."

The blonde beamed. "Great."

With that, she pulled him close to her. It didn't take any time at her to tune into the rhythm of the music, moving in perfect sync. Meanwhile, Brad was floundering, — he couldn't handle watching her and feeling her against him all at once, especially when he remembered that when Pogo got out of the bathroom, he'd be taking her back, before eventually, — inevitably, — fucking her at the end of the night.

Though he knew it didn't mean anything, Brad hated that thought. Even drunk, he couldn't get it out of his head.

The blonde huffed out a laugh. She felt her hands on his, — soft, if a bit clammy, — moving his grip towards her hips. "You can't dance for shit," she shouted.

Brad shook his head, dreads falling into his eyes. "Sorry," he managed to say.

He didn't know if this routine continued for seconds or minutes, but he did know at the exact moment that Pogo came back into view that it was over. He grinned, pulling the girl back to him. "Thanks for watching her for me, Gidge," he said, grinning fiendishly. "You're a real pal."

The girl giggled, leaning back into him.

Brad's stomach turned. "You're welcome," he managed. Then, as the next song started up, he held up a hand, bidding them adieu. "I'm going out for a cigarette," he said. "See y'all in a few?"

The girl hanging on him like a limp ragdoll, Pogo nodded halfheartedly. "Yeah," he replied. "Maybe."

-

The air outside was muggy, but what else could anyone expect on a mid-summer night in Fort Lauderdale?

Hands shaking, Brad leaned against the building, fumbling in an attempt to light his cigarette. He hated feeling like this, — so upset, so pathetic, like Pogo had stolen his girlfriend at a middle school dance or something. He chalked it up to being high strung and inebriated, convincing himself that he wouldn't remember what the girl looked like in the morning, anyway as he took his first tug off his smoke.

"Hey."

He jumped as the monotonous voice fell on his ears. "Hello?" he questioned the dark.

"Sorry." A tall, lithe figure stepped into the dim light. Of course, it was Elvira, looking just as miserable as she did inside, but somehow just a bit softer.

She sighed. "I just wanted to apologize for acting the way that I did," she said. "I've been told that I'm a bit of a killjoy..."

"Hey... that's alright." Brad pulled his cigarette from beneath his lips, throwing it to the ground to stomp it out. "We're at a goth club, right? Gotta play the part."

Elvira smiled. It was a disconcerting sight. "You're... amusing," she said flatly. "Feel like going behind the building?"

Brad's friendly smile faded. "Oh, — we don't have to..." he stammered. "I mean... it didn't really seem like you liked me very much..."

Elvira lifted a long, pale finger to his mouth. "Either the drinks are kicking in," she began, "or I've changed my mind."

Feeling his willpower slip away, Brad straightened his spine, reaching down to grab her hand. "Come on."

-

As soon as Brad pulled his pants back up, Elvira disappeared in the dark like the creature of the night that she obviously was. Feeling oddly empty, Brad stumbled back inside.

He figured the night had been eventful enough. Somehow, he had achieved his own objective. Though he didn't want to think about it for too long, he suspected that Pogo might have, as well.

He just wasn't sure where he was.

The crowd had thinned out considerably. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was well past one in the morning, nearing closing time.

People were brushing by him on the way to the door, and neither Pogo nor the blonde were anywhere in sight.

"Hey."

Hearing the smoky female voice sparked his hopes, causing him to whip around quickly. To his chagrin, it was only the middle aged bartender, who was currently wiping down the bar.

She smiled kindly at him, as if sensing his disappointment. "Your friend told me to tell you he was going home," she said. "You need me to call a cab?"

He shook his head. "Nah, I'll get it," he said. "But thanks."

With that, he headed back towards the door, — hoping that he'd be able to forget the look in her eyes, the feel of her hands, the sound of her voice.

Her.


End file.
